"JILL DOESN'T COUNT"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 26 November 1940, Page 10

"JILL DOESN'T COUNT"

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

Phyllis Hambledon.

(Author of "Youth Takes the Helm.”)

CHAPTER 111. (Continued >. "Dr. Vereker’s consulting hours do not start until five-thirty,” said Jill in a professional manner. "Have you an appointment?” “No, but I rather think he will see me,” said Miss Croft, and she gave her name. “If you step in, I will enquire,” said Jill. Miss Croft took note of the trimness of the waiting-room, of the modern magazines on the table. (Jill had brought them from Lilac Cottage). Then there was the sound of hurried footsteps and Oliver came in. His face was beaming, he smiled at Miss Croft in the old hearty way he had had, which, as she had said in the old days, seemed to do you as much good as a bottle of medicine. And Miss Croft found herself smiling in return, holding out both her hands. “Oh, Doctor, I’m so glad to have you back,” she exclaimed. “That’s the first real welcome I’ve had, Miss Croft.” “I wanted to tell you how glad I was when I heard you were staying here!” cried Miss Croft. “It’s all been so dreadful for you. You must have wanted to go away. I’m glad you didn’t. We need you here. There must be plenty of us older ones who hope it will be you to help tnem when their time comes at last, Doctor; I’m not really ill, but I did want a bottle of medicine for my digestion, the same as you used to give me.” “Miss Ferrand,” said Oliver.

Jill came. She was smiling. She’s not so homely as they all said, thought Miss Croft indignantly. “Miss Croft is an old friend of mine,’ said Oliver as he introduced them. ‘“-This is Miss Ferrand, my dispenser.” “I’m so glad to meet you, my dear,” said Miss Croft. Jill went to the dispensary and made up the prescription which Oliver had handed her Miss Croft laid half-a-crown on the doctor’s desk. “That’s what I used to pay,” she said. “It’s free —gratis and for nothing today,” said Oliver. ’ “It’s you who has given me medicine.” “Not at all,” said Miss Croft. “I pay my way, Dr. Vereker.” He saw that she meant what she said, and accepted' the half-crown rather sadly. What will she do without, to make up for that? he wondered. When she had gone, he showed it to Jill. “The first of my earnings since my ''ome-back,” he said. “It’s an omen,” said Jill. “She was sweet, Oliver. If your patients all feel like that about you, you’ll be making a fortune again in no time.” “They don’t all feel like that, my dear,” said Oliver. “One swallow doesn't make a summer, you kriow, and one patient doesn’t make a practice.”

“But one swallow means that summer is coming," said Jill. “And practices are made up by one patient after another patient!” But althought she spoke so encouragingly, winning back a practice was desperately uphill work. There were times when Jill wondered bleakly if perhaps they had taken on more that they could manage. To begin with, it was the slack time of the year. This glorious summer weather did not encourage illness. Things would be better for them, when the fogs and the gales came and the continuous monotonous rains of autumn. They were days when despite that spick-and-span consulting room, despite Jill’s spotless overalls, nobody rang the surgery bell from morning to sunset. There were other days when the waiting-room was filled with the hopeless ones known to every practice, the non-payers, the neuasthenics who do not want to be better, the brumbiers, who go from one doctor to another, owing all of them. Every morning and every afternoon Oliver drove his car round the practice pretending to be busy on the visits which were not there to pay. He managed to look calm, serene, cheerful. He did not flinch when some of his best patients cut him dead, nor when he saw the other doctors’ cars outside their houses. He had told himself it was going to be an uphill fight, hadn’t he? He had expected it. And, again, it was for Viva’s sake—to make a home for Viva!

If there hadn’t bee a few rays of light on the prevailing gloom, perhaps he would not have had courage to continue. Money was scarce, he and Jill lived on almost nothing; bills owing to him long before he had gone to prison remain unpaid. But old Mrs. O’Flynn whose four babies ho had brought into the world gratis, offered to do an hour’s charring every morning by way of settlement. There were mothers too who told him that their children would have no other doctor. Above all, there was Jill.

He had never guessed that anybody could have such an unflinching sense humour. She seemed to see everything as a joke. He was glad she shared his midday meal and tea with him, and arrived in time to give him his breakfast in the morning. The lonely times were when she went back to her lodgings in the evening and he sal alone chewing his pipe, or going through the ledgers again in a desperate' attempt at wresting money out of what seemed like hopelessly bad debts. There were the Regans for instance. They were straw hat manufacturers and lived on the outskirts of Charnford in an enormous house with two lodges. Forty pounds had seemed a small enough bill for a year’s attendance on the family. If they would only pay it, what a difference it would make to him! Forty pounds would have kept him going for three months, bought new instruments, replenished his stock of drugs. If they’d pay —but they'd gone on a cruise round the world instead. He’d written to them care of their solicitor without receiving a reply.

And Jill watched him, helping him, loving him, aching for him. Viva had told her roundly that she was a fool. Viva wasn't jealous. How could she be? Her petal-loveliness could find no rival in her sister. But she was annoyed. Jill had been useful to her in a dozen ways. Jill mended, cooked, got rid of unwelcome visitors, got rid of herself when the visitors were welcome, could “set” her hair for her, could act as a foil between her and the world. The maid who replaced her, didn’t do half what Jill had done. So, since Viva had always been the World’s worst Letter Writer, communication between Charnford and Lilac Cottage ceased. One day Jill received news unexpectedly. There had actually been a call for Oliver, and he had gone in reply to it. Jill was dusting bottles in the dispensary, when she heard a crash outside. A very bright blue and opulent-looking car had collided with a milk-float. As always happens, a crowd collected in a minute. A policeman elbowed his way through tire gaping people. Jill cast a glance out of the window. Nobody she gathered from the the somewhat disappointed expressions of the crowd was badly injured. Then she saw that the owner of the blue car was mopping blood from his forehead with a large handkerchief. Bad luck, that Oliver was out!

Quick as thought, however, she switched on the electric heater and opened the bandage case. As it happened, she was just in time. The surgery bell rang resoundingly. When she answered it, the car owner stood on the doorstep. He was a tall good-looking man. and wore a superfine grey flannel suit. Obviously a person of means. “Doctor in?” he asked. “He’ll be here in a minute,” said Jill. “I can attend to you till he comes.” Into her eyes had come a startled look of recognition, but the man was for the moment too shaken to extend his eyes farther than her white uniform. The voice too sounded cool, efficient. He came in: Jill made him sit down. Then she dressed the wound, slickly, efficiently. She had adjusted the bandage when the man eye travelled from her neat hands to the face under the white coif she wore. He gave a -gasp. “Why, Jumping Jupiter, if it isn’t Jill Ferrand!” “Yes, Mr. Trant,” said Jill. “Good Lord, and to think I never recognised you! And I’ve been looking all over the shop for you too! What on earth are you doing here?” “I’m a dispenser now,” said Jill. “A dispenser? You mean to say you’ve left the films?” “Yes.”

“But that’s absurd,” cried Malcolm Trant. “Absurd.” He seemed more agitated that he had been over the .accident. “Look here, my deal' girl, it can’t be allowed. I’ve had my eye on you for a long time. I’m not a scenario writer for nothing. That first picture I saw you in I said: That girl should be watched. The sooner you get back to the films, the better.” “Don’t like films,” said Jill, cutting off the end of the bandage neatly. “You say you’ve looked for me everywhere, Mr. Trant. Why didn’t you ask Viva?” “It wasn’t so easy,” said Trant. “The Austrian Tyrol is pretty inaccessible. Funny what a fashionable background it is for pictures nowadays. I did mean to get hold of her, when she came back the end of this week. Is she going to marry Greer, may I ask?” “Greer? Gerald Greer, you mean?" gasped Jill. “There’s only one Greer,” said Malcolm Trant. “But she couldn’t,” said Jill. “She just couldn’t!” What a lot she was learning about Viva in a bare ten minutes. "He’s hideous and horrid!” “Our Viva is very keen on her career,” said Trant, “and Greer is very keen on Viva.”

“I don’t believe it,” whispered Jill. “I won’t believe it ’’ Trant shrugged his shoulders. “Well, that’s what everybody is saying, but I quite agree, you ought to know more than anybody else. Jill, I’ve a juicy part in the new scenario I’ve just finished —simply meant for you. It’s called: Dear Little Plain Girl.” He broke off. “What are you laughing about?” . “The title,” jeered Jill. ‘lt’s so suitable, isn’t it? Offer me a part as Dear Little Pretty Girl and I might consider it, Mr. Trant.” “But, look here?” cried Malcolm, “what'S biting you, my dear? You know I couldn't. I mean —you’re one of the cutest kids I ever met, but Then he saw that she was laughing again at him. He laughed, too, with relief. “I see,” he said, “that’s your way of saying—nothing doing.” “I'm rather afraid it is,” said Jill. “But why? You’ve gone mad! What do you get per week dispensing? Not more that fifty bob. I’ll be bound.” "It isn’t quite as much as that,” said Jill, who still refused to take a penny from Oliver.

“You'd get a damn sight more than that with any contract and you know it. You really should consider my oiler, Jill. And it’s a firm one. I've talked it over with British Photostudies already.” “Only as Dear Little Pretty Girl." repeated Jill. “There's a man in. the case!" said Malcolm instantly. “That’s what's the trouble.” “Oh, tripe!" said Jill, but she blushed scarlet. She began putting away the soiled cotton wool as a sign that the interview was over. “You'd better lot your own doctor have a look at your forehead tomorrow," she said. "In the meantime you 1 better go home to bed and er —don't let your imagination run away with you.”

(To be Continued).